“tonight while the lights are shining and the microphone is on, i’ll play for you…” (seals and crofts)
or no lights.
a piano perched among the boulders looking out toward the mountain range – in this very special place. a boom mic.
in my dreams, i can see it.
the bigrocks are seats and the program is not written. it all comes from the spirit in this place, from air, from healing. and – even more specifically in my dream – a yamaha disklavier pro minus the fancy-schmancy newfangled stuff – an instrument to record directly to disk…on-the-fly on-tape, in the vernacular.
in my dreams – in my regaining of feeling relevant – my fight to regain relevance – as a 65 year-old recording artist who broke both wrists snowboarding and then tore my scapholunate ligament (leaving me with a rh grand total of 45° forward rom) – i am sitting at C7 pros all over – in fields of boulders, in canyonlands, perched on mesas, in meadows of wildflowers, on a cool sand beach. i am playing the boulderfield, the canyonland, the mesa, the meadow, the beach. it is a conversation between us – even, maybe – through me. it is simply an offering to anyone – or any one – who wishes to listen. it’s a dream awash in unlikelihood but with maybe-just-maybe the smallest iota of possible. maybe we can make it happen.
i stood – again – on the most obvious rock from which to bow to my invisible audience. and i bowed low.
because sound or not, there is music. sheet music or not, there is composing. audience or not, there is listening. it is all happening – simultaneously. right there. in that place.
the boulders on the grassy knoll know it. and i can see it.
“i’ve practiced many years and i have come a long, long way just to play for you… my life is but a song i have written in many ways, just to say to you…”
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because it feels like the past, the present and the future all at once and – here – it all wraps around your heart.
we are both john denver fans. not the ridiculous push-to-the-front-of-the-crowd-for-a-signature type. just the quiet, eternally-grateful type. he has inspired us. he has inspired me. he made the simple melodic gesture a visceral thing. he elevated folksy messaging and storytelling; he reinforced the beauty of a lack of adornment. simplicity.
and when we stand in this beautiful place – designed to honor him, his composing and songwriting, his vision of the world – we are standing in and with his spirit. and you can feel it.
we slowly walkabout, arm in arm. we hum the songs chiseled into granite boulders. we stand immersed, pondering, in front of quotes of john muir and leonardo da vinci and helen keller and rachel carson and jacques cousteau.
it is a ritual. the dandy dandelions show up and i instantly become the mother of toddlers. oh, those very, very precious times.
it is wondrous to me that i still receive notes about this song – fistful of dandelions.
my children are both in their thirties now. life as a mom has changed dramatically…but only from a practical day-to-day point of view. the heart stuff is the same. it never changes.
a friend wrote to me, wondering if she could turn her mother-emotions down a bit now that her child was an adult.
i wrote back it doesn’t get any easier. motherhood is both the joy and grief. it is the fierce loving, protecting, worrying, cheering on…forever and ever. it is the backing up. it is the letting go. it is trusting that – in both the bliss and the pain – the connection exists, there is love.
“99% of people wouldn’t notice that”, he said, “and they’d just keep walking.”
the stranger had stopped where we were. i was off-trail, taking a picture of sun as it glinted off cattails. i was precariously close to the water’s edge, hidden by dried leaves and twigs in the marshy area, but worth it for the photo. d had just given me a hand-up back onto the trail when the stranger stopped.
he asked to see my photographs and i complied. and we all started talking. george spoke from the wisdom of someone close-to-80 as he recounted stories of trails he had recently taken, of people going too fast to SEE anything at all. he told us he was happy we noticed the glowing cattails, happy that we were looking – really looking – as we hiked. he told us that “it” (life) is all about looking and learning, researching, wondering, thinking and looking some more. we agree.
i’m not sure there’s ever been a hike – anywhere – when i haven’t taken at least a few photographs. there’s just so much to see. sometimes, in the middle of our not-knowing, we’ll look things up right away. sometimes, we save that for later.
just a couple days ago – in a truly magical moment – we stopped on the trail, separated from a pond by a bit of woods and grasses.
the red-tailed hawk was still. in the air – suspended on a current, wings curled up – it was absolutely still, hovering in place. though i know hawks are apt to do this as they hunt, this hawk just stayed still as we watched. then it flew a little lower and hovered a little bit more. it never dove down for any prey; it just hovered and then landed in a tree nearby as if to say, “there! that was for you.” it was a gorgeous and spiritual moment. i won’t forget it.
the trail – in both its simplicity and complexity – is a constant reminder for us.
“it’s not about you,” it whispers. “look around. there’s so much to see. it’s all here FOR you.”
and in the middle of the night – him sleeping like a baby and snoring like a freight train – while i am sitting there, wide awake, gazing adoringly at his smug-sweet-sleeping-snoring face – as much as i remind myself my insomnia is not his fault – it is neither his joy or his angst – it is not his to own or relinquish – it is not his to have and to hold – he tends to bug me just the teensiest-tiniest-minutest-nanoscopicest-infinitesimalest-bit.
and the beautiful flower – with tiny white petals – its seeds were ripening. slowly, it began to wrap its inflorescence in, protecting. and the tiny bird’s-nest-shape remained, wound around, parenting, holding dear until the dried seeds, ready, release and go off into the world.
nature repeats itself. its stories – from one species to the next, one genus to the next – seem inordinately similar.
we – now adults – have left our own green-bird’s-nest years ago. it was a haven of sorts, but only for a time, as we grew. and then, suddenly, we are out and about in the world, riding the jet stream, surfing the tide, subjected to scorching sun and bitter cold. we trust the world to carry us safely. we are innocent seeds.
we learn – in different stages of our growth – that though we are held in unconditional love by some, there are others who will not tend us gently. we begin to discern the difference. we choose those who support us, whose inflorescent arms wrap us lightly, tenderly. we are buoyed, encouraged, picked up, bolstered by these arms. the others – the ones who aim to dilute, push down, disempower – they are loud voices – righteous and suffocating and dispiriting.
but – amidst either – we are still seeds as we continue on, other seeds also on this way.
and we try to remember to be as queen anne’s lace – once held gently and released – always with the knowledge that there are nurturing tiny and big blossoms out there, sharing the universe with us.
and we try to remember to be as queen anne’s lace – to, similarly, hold gently and release – with empathy our north star as we float and soar, celebrating every single other seed.
“our house…is a very very very fine house…” i can hear crosby, stills, nash and young gently singing this sweet domestic-bliss song in my ear. it makes me smile and nod my head.
everyone has their bliss. some need gigantic homes with every upgrade. some need rv’s that give freedom to roam. some need high-floor-city-dwelling. some need acreage in the middle of nowhere.
the things we need change.
we are finding that we need less and less. nothing fancy, nothing real shiny, nothing ostentatious, our house is simply an old house. it was built in 1928 and has all the trimmings of a sturdy old home – thick crown moldings and wainscoting panels, solid six panels and windowed french doors, creaking wood floors, glass doorknobs, high ceilings, double-hung roped windows. it also has all the quirks.
and we love it all.
now, don’t get me wrong, these last few days i would have been a very happy girl to have had central air conditioning. other days, i’ve pined for an island in our kitchen or maybe a master suite or a connected two-car garage. but…it’s not so and we don’t get all hung up on that stuff.
instead, we just love our house. and we feel like it knows it. because we can feel it loving us back.
behind the curtain and between stage-left and stage-right wings, the action is paused and ready. umbel stalks on point, waiting to explode into clusters of tiny white flowers, delicate leaves opening, lacy, inviting the show to go on.
it’s spectacular – this performance of nature.
queen anne’s lace – i first learned of this wildflower from my dear friend linda – can be confused with other plants. bishop’s flower, wild parsley and hemlock taunt many from the meadow and one must be careful to realize that their performance piece is not the same – they are not edible – like this wild carrot of queen anne’s lace – and, in fact, they are toxic. the meadow stage offers up options but only carrots are carrots.
for those who love the stage in any capacity, there is a responsibility, things one must remember.
i knew from the beginning that the stage was not about me, not about what it could bring me. instead, the stage is about what i can bring to the audience. i have played to a handful of people; i have played to tens of thousands of people. i always knew it was simply my job to offer my music, stories, lyrics, song, to put it out there. to be absolutely present – sharing the moment – my jeans stuck in my boot. to connect, to resonate, to move – though my expectation was not to be moved, were i to feel it connect, resonate, move, i, in turn, am profoundly moved.
to be off-stage for a longer period of time is taxing. there’s expendable energy stoking up, ready to burst off the apron, into the house. shimmering moments, illuminating the glow of faces seated, the warm cloud of laughter, the sighs of sinking in.
i have stood on the giant rocks of the john denver sanctuary, bowing. i have stood on the stump and the downed tree in the forest, bowing. i have danced on the deck, bowing. i have fist-microphoned in the kitchen, bowing.
i googled “what is the difference between an entertainer and an artist?” for i am often called an “entertainer” and, for some reason, that word rubs me wrong. surprisingly, an AI bot responded. “sage” wrote, “entertainment often focuses on providing a pleasurable or amusing experience for the audience, while art is more about expressing ideas, emotions or personal experiences. … entertainers focus on entertaining, while artists focus on expressing themselves through their art.”
sage’s answer indirectly implies a contrived reorganization, a pleasing-you approach. and while i have read audiences time and again, choosing direction of a concert – if possible – as i perform, on the fly, it is still with an intent to share, to impact, not to simply “amuse”.
i think it’s a matter of purity. or order. or intention. a combination of the three. plus gut. intuition. emotion. to bring. to touch. to move. to prompt questions. to elicit change. artistry. to lift up – suspending in midair – a piece of music, to let it soak up tiny jet streams that will carry it, to let it fall – as it might – onto the anyone or the anyones who is or are there – recipients of my good intention, from stage to audience.
hunger for the stage is real. it is pining for that connection, for the very reason i have composed.
one day the curtain rises – one day the delicate leaves drop – and i’m grateful to perform, piano, boom mic, wood under my feet – and the clusters of tiny white flowers explode into daylight.
i’m trying to decide just how vulnerable to be, how brutally honest, how much to share. it’s like sitting on the fulcrum in the middle of the seesaw…you can choose either way from the pivot point.
this lovely couple – who we considered extended family and saw every sunday – was next door at the garden club’s secret garden event. we saw them from our deck, waving to us over the neighbor’s fence. we gestured we’d meet them in the front yard. giant hugs later, we started a little catching up, having not seen each other in years now. they had family tales and travel tales and many tales of adventure.
they told us they missed us. we were grateful to hear they missed our “energy” and “the fun we brought”. they asked about us.
he asked if i had a position now. i don’t. being terminated during a global pandemic at the age of then-61 with an injury to my hand doesn’t naturally lead to a new position, particularly in the arts. i’m 64 now and we can both agree that age discrimination is alive and well in our country.
she asked if i was composing, if i was “doing my music”.
i sat in the middle of the seesaw.
i’m asked this fairly frequently – people expect someone who has 15 albums already and who has also spent decades as a minister of music – to be fully immersed in music now. after. usually, i somehow deflect, saying something like ” you know, the pandemic…” my voice trailing off. then i quickly ask what they are up to, how their family is, the new grandchild, the retirement, the vacation, the joint replacement…
this time, though, with these dear people standing in our driveway on a beautiful day – post-hugs – tears sprang to my eyes and i began by saying, “eh, this might be too much information.”
and then i told them that i am not composing, that i am not “doing my music” and that i haven’t been able to. that it’s too been too much, that it was too hurtful, that – as much as my studio is a part of me, my essence – being fired devastated me in more ways than anyone can really imagine. it is not as simple as walking back into the studio, sitting at my piano, grabbing pencil and paper, placing hands on the keys. it wasn’t just any old job they took away. it was part of my soul. and – to be honest – i am having trouble recovering. still.
the fulcrum teetered and the seesaw arm – the resistance arm or the effort arm, i wonder – fell to the ground, jostling me. i apologized for the over-abundance of emotion.
they stared at me. they looked surprised; they looked sad. we were quiet for a minute, while i regained my composure and climbed back onto the fulcrum pivot.
but the words were out there. and they were the truth of it all.
my son shares his name. it’s his middle name. wayne.
it was in the middle of my second pregnancy we lost my vastly-loved big brother. my little girl was two; my little boy not yet arrived. i had lost grandparents before that. but, somehow, despite our sadness in these losses, in their older-age, it seemed a natural part of the life cycle. my brother was different. it was today, 31 years ago. and he was merely 41, which is twenty-three years younger than i am at this moment.
though my brain somehow grasped the details of his cancer, my mind couldn’t wrap itself around how it was possible that the world could go on if he could no longer feel it. i still struggle with this. i am not naive enough to think it all ceases because of one – but the lack of the act of feeling, the passion of feeling, the tactile, the visceral of feeling – all this – it felt – no, feels – inordinately complicated to me. the full-stop. surely, in the moments i ponder this is when i realize how utterly futile it is to try and control anything, to be utterly absorbed in stuffff, to not stop and notice the tiny delicate flowers on the path.
we are reading a book together. though the actual book has nothing at all to do with this post or my brother or pausing on trails in the woods, the title – for me – is relevant: i have some questions for you.
i do, my big brother. i have some questions for you.
i know you know, bro, how adored you always were. did you take it with you? can you feel it on this other plane you are on?
i know you loved coffee ice cream, hot cups of coffee, birthday cake. are your senses as vibrant? did you smell the peonies in our backyard? can you now catch a whiff of the lavender, the mint, the basil? can you feel the sun? are you aware of the breeze – or – are you the breeze itself?
i know you loved to hear neil diamond, loved to play guitar and sing, loved to feel your hands on projects of wood. do you float in and out now, catching snatches of song, feeling the pick in your hand, hearing the scroll saw start up?
i know you loved. are you right here – loving – right now? are you right next to your wife, your beloved children and your grandchildren, and, if we could touch incandescence, the full spectrum of color, translucent gossamer, could we touch you?
i know you are not in a physical form on this earth. but are you simply unseeable? are you, in turn, coffeesitting with our mom and dad and then swooping in to somehow steadfastly drop wisdom or strength onto the rest of us?
i know you probably don’t have any questions. but i do. and, as my big brother, you will need to find a way to answer them, as i am counting on you to explain all this.
i’ll stop – wayne – at the delicate flowers in the woods. i’ll slow down and dance on the deck. i’ll try not to worry about the angst of the day-to-day. i’ll feel and i’ll drop into pause.
there are times i know you are here. there are times i know our sweet momma and poppo are here. i wish it were easier to see you.
in some kind of trust – right smack in the middle of grace and not-knowing – i do believe you are the wind.
reverse threading 